Scottish Rain
by Louiseifer
Summary: Carson takes Rodney home to meet his family. Slash.
1. Prologue

"The thing about Scotland," said McKay, on the aeroplane across the Atlantic, "is that it's British. And the thing about Britain, is that it's tiny, and damp, and inhospitable. And the portions are very, very small."

Carson Beckett shut his eyes. He had already been listening to this for three straight days, and rather than getting steadily more annoyed he had managed to condition himself so that now he barely noticed the white noise emitting from the direction of Rodney when the subject of Carson's home came up. He stretched his legs out in front of him, smiling slightly at their first-class surroundings, and crossed his ankles. With one hand, and his eyes still shut, he reached out lazily and turned up the volume on the movie he was listening to through his headphones.

Rodney lifted the headphones clean off and carried on talking as if Carson wasn't trying to ignore him at all.

"I've been to Britain. It's horrible. I spent a week in London in January. I've never been so wet and miserable in my life, not even during that incident with the Genii. Nasty little place, should be closed to outsiders."

Carson sighed slightly and gave in. "It's not always wet."

"Yes, it is."

"Okay."

Agitated by his own failure to start an argument, Rodney twisted in his seat to glare at him. "That's it? 'Okay'? Not going to defend the homeland?"

"We'll be there in an hour. You'll see it. And anyway, if you hate it, why did you come?"

That was a nasty thing to say, Rodney thought. Nasty because Carson knew exactly what he was doing. And what he was doing was forcing Rodney to say something nice to him.

"I thought we could join the mile-high club," he said, hope clearly audible in his voice.

Carson took a thick book out of his bag and opened it at the start.

* * *

The woman at the foreign exchange desk peered at them over the top of her spectacles. "Sorry?" she said, in a thick Highland accent.

"US dollars," said Rodney, very slowly, pushing the money across the desk. "We want whatever currency you can use here in the wilderness. Goats, or pebbles, or, I don't know, womenfolk."

The woman continued to stare at him, faintly bewildered, as she counted out twenties. Carson had to try very hard not to say anything when Rodney bought that t-shirt at Gatwick, because telling Rodney something you knew but he didn't was always a risky business. He should have said something, though, because now here was his man, wearing a flag of St George, and being obnoxious to the locals in what was, to most people, indistinguishable from an American accent.

"Two hundred," concluded the woman, pushing the notes across the desk. Carson let Rodney examine them with an expression of distaste as they ambled towards the exit, luggage in hand. A strange feeling of anticipation was building up inside Carson, and it wasn't entirely comfortable. In Atlantis, he fell fast and hard for Rodney, and he did love him even if neither of them was likely to say it any time soon. But now, standing in an airport with a Marks and Spencer over there, and a W. H. Smith's there, and a boy near the entrance yelling 'Big Issue!' in a Glaswegian accent, something didn't sit quite right. It was easy to imagine this was the real world, and Atlantis was all a weird, wonderful, terrible dream that he had awoken from.

Rodney didn't fit here. Not in reality, and not in Carson's head. He was too big and boisterous for Inverness airport, and he would definitely be too much for the village where Carson's mum still lived. Not only that, but he was part of another world, another reality. This was the world of Carson's childhood, where everything was familiar. Rodney just… didn't belong.

There was a crowd at the doorway, but not a big one, and they soon discovered the reason for it. People were huddling inside, waiting for transportation and sheltering from looked to be a very determined sleet storm. Rodney gave him a withering look.

"Told you. What did I say? It's wet and miserable, and I am _not_ going out there."

"It's just a bit of snow, man," muttered Carson, shouldering his way through the throng, but he had to admit in the privacy of his own mind that it was not, in fact, just a bit of snow. Biting sleet stung his cheeks, rain with a razor's edge, and the wind was vicious as ever. His suitcase-on-wheels splashed through the puddles towards a waiting taxi, parked on yellow lines and honking impatiently. He gave his mother's rural address, and the driver laughed.

"In this weather, mate? You having a laugh?"

Carson turned to Rodney for help, but he was busy examining the words 'Fàilte gu Inbhir Nis" on a signpost.

"Some kind of primitive language," he announced. Carson winced as a couple of youths glared at him. "Impressive!"

Carson grabbed him, and their luggage, and somehow managed to manhandle Rodney into the car and persuade the driver to take them out of the city and into the hills. The journey almost got off to a horrible start when the driver commented that he didn't get many Yanks in his cab, but Rodney apparently didn't notice, and the driver launched into a monologue about a recent football match. He seemed to be holding up the conversation well enough on his own, so Carson leaned across to Rodney.

"You remember what I told you? About my family?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you still want to go through with this?"

"Yes!"

"And you actually understand what we're doing. You're not just humouring me?"

"Yes! I mean no, I'm not! I'm meeting your parents. Big deal. Seems to me being gay has its advantages – once you get over the anal sex thing, everything else is a piece of cake."

Carson cringed and sat back against the window. He was desperate just to be home, with his mum, yet at the same time he was dreading it. His mother knew he was coming home, and would have the whole family round. McKay was bound to screw up, to embarrass himself or someone else. Carson was sure his mum would be perfectly polite and supportive, but he couldn't guarantee to Rodney that his uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces would be as accepting. But at least Rodney seemed to be taking this whole thing in his stride. Carson had expected a straight 'no' when he suggested the trip home, and so far, despite the superficial complaining, Rodney was behaving.

Carson only hoped his good behaviour lasted out the week. Hoped, but knew better than to expect…


	2. Day One

McKay sat with his forehead against the cold glass of the taxi window, gazing out as the scenery whipped past. He had to admit, albeit not aloud, that as far as scenery went Scotland rated pretty high. Majestic hills and mountains swept up into the clouds, their mysterious summits hidden from view. Tiny, winding streams bubbled their way through the rock, and every so often they passed a loch. A childish part of his brain wanted to enquire into the presence of monsters; since Atlantis, he was willing to believe in almost anything, but for once in his life McKay decided to keep quiet. He didn't feel much like talking at all right now.

Carson was gazing out of the other passenger window, a faint smile on his face. Every so often, he reached across to give Rodney's hand a reassuring pat, and for his part Rodney pretended he was fine. The English taxi driver had started giving them suspicious glances in the rear-view mirror. Rodney had started listing insults that applied to him. _Ignorant, backwater lowlife, scum of society, prejudiced little twerp…_

"Wait," Rodney lifted his head, "what's that smell?"

The car pulled to a stop in the driveway of a white-walled house, and Carson leapt out, almost tripping over his seat belt and his own legs.

"Tenner, mate," said the driver, and Rodney fumbled in his pockets until he found the British money from the airport. As soon as the note was handed over, the driver muttered "have fun, girls."

Carson just managed to grab Rodney and haul him out of the car before he did any damage, and they watched the car vanish into the village. Carson shook his head.

"We're not in the big city now, Rodney. We're going to get a lot of that. Many people here are very religious, and… well, let's just get inside, shall we? I can smell dinner already."

Rodney's face lit up at that. "I thought I could smell something food-related."

Dinner, to Rodney's disappointment, would have to wait out the introductions. The door was opened by a stout man with a stern face. Carson grinned and shook his hand vigorously.

"Rodney," he said, "this is my uncle Rob."

Uncle Rob ignored the hand Rodney offered him. "An duine agad?" he asked Carson, accusingly.

"Hey," snapped Rodney. "I don't speak Scottishese here."

"Sorry, Rodney. And yes, uncle, Rodney is my…" They exchanged a glance. They hadn't discussed the semantics of their relationship. Mostly because they hadn't needed to tell anyone. Those close to them seemed to have known before they did, and those not so close didn't need to know at all.

"Partner," Rodney finished for him.

"Aye, well, I'm off then, lad. You're my sister's boy, but I could do without that sort of thing in the family." Carson's uncle clapped him on the shoulder, then headed off to a car parked nearby. Rodney stared after him, then opened his mouth to retort.

"Don't, Rodney."

They hefted up their luggage and headed into the house. Rodney trailed a little way behind Carson, his mind still reeling from the bluntness of the old man's tone. It wasn't as if he had expected to be with Carson and breeze through life without anyone objecting, and… well, it was fair to say he wasn't planning to tell his own mother anything for the foreseeable future, but Rodney had only ever been on the receiving end of a jibe or a smack-down when he had well and truly earned it. That was fairly often, but he wasn't used to being judged by someone whose intelligence he hadn't had the chance to insult yet.

The house was small and poky, with three doors leading off the hallway, and a flight of elderly stairs disappearing into the darkness. Photographs lined the hall, so that hundreds of different faces smiled down on visitors. Rodney quickly realised that a high proportion of them were Carson at various stages in his life, although it was hard to spot which childhood photos were him, and which were his cousins. He would, however, put money on the kid with the plastic stethoscope, checking the pulse of a teddy bear.

Carson vanished into a sitting room, and there was a sudden explosion of sound. A dozen voices rose up in greeting, and the first creeping sensation of fear rose up Rodney's spine. This was a very close family. How would they react to Rodney, stealer of their son? He didn't have much time in which to wonder, because Carson reached round the door and dragged him inside.

Something must have happened, because the next thing Rodney knew he was sitting in an over-stuffed armchair with a mug of tea in his hand and his feet on a stool. There was pink lipstick on his cheek, visible in a large wall-mirror, and a young man was shaking his free hand and talking at him in ninety miles per hour Scottish.

"…What?"

"Ah sed, ah didnae ken oor Carson wus bringin ehnybudy haem," said the man again – or, at any rate, that was how Rodney would have written it phonetically, if he'd had an hour and a thick book on linguistics.

"We're all dead chuffed," said a girl with a northern English accent.

"Dead chuffed," repeated Rodney. "Great. Um, yeah. Great…" He looked to Carson, who was perched on the arm of the chair, for support.

"These are my cousins, James and Sandra," he explained. He proceeded to introduce half a dozen aunts, a few more cousins, and a couple of uncles who were sitting in the corner pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"Wow. Big family."

"These are just the guys who live round here. Oh, and that's my mum." A grin spread across Carson's face as an elderly woman handed him a mug, then enveloped him in a hug. When they broke apart, Rodney thought for a moment that she would hug him next, but she just squeezed his hand and politely introduced herself. He got some very mixed vibes from her, and since he had enough trouble deciphering unmixed vibes, he sat in confusion while Carson and his family talked and laughed and reminisced, wondering why he hadn't just stayed with the rest of the Atlantis team instead of allowing Carson to drag him out here.

An hour or so later, the house had emptied with the exception of cousins James and Sandra, who vanished into the kitchen to help Mrs Beckett with dinner. Rodney tried not to look like he was totally uncomfortable in his skin.

"Relax, Rodney. They all loved you."

"I sat in a corner and mumbled at them. What the heck is there to love?"

"Oh," said Carson coyly. "I could think of a few things." He ran his fingers over Rodney's knuckles, then leaned in for a kiss. Rodney was dimly aware that they had used the L-word, however indirectly, but he tucked his fingers into Carson's hair and let the moment wash over them.

"Say cheese!"

Slightly blinded by the camera flash, Rodney glared at the girl, Sandra, who was leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

"Dinner's up," she said. "'Cept apparently you two couldn't wait."

"Is she always this annoying?" Rodney said, as they followed through to the dining room.

"Always," said Carson.

The meal was surprisingly delicious, since Rodney had been expecting something unidentifiable that had been beaten to death then boiled for three days in a sack. He barely even flinched when James casually mentioned he had slaughtered the lamb himself that morning, and instead came out with a handful of fairly standard lines that nevertheless got more of a laugh than they deserved.

To Carson's increasing amazement, Rodney managed to actually be polite, and barely insulted anyone present, and even managed a degree of civility regarding the country in general. The only issue Rodney seemed to have was with Carson's mother. She was mostly interested in Carson, and attempting to whittle out of him information about his job, and whether it was dangerous, and why he didn't come home and set up his own practice. The few questions she had for Rodney were met with polite yet basic answers. Carson made a note to mention it to Rodney later, once they were alone.

Eventually Mrs Beckett made her excuses and stood up.

"It's good to have you home, love," she said, pausing to brush some invisible dust off Carson's shoulder. "But I've got to call it a night. I left your room how it was." She glanced along the table. "Oh, and Rodney, dear, you can pull out the couch and make it into a bed. Goodnight."

"I can… Oh." Rodney watched her go, obviously dying to protest. He looked to Carson for help.

"It's not my house, love." Carson kissed him on the forehead. "I'll see you in the morning."


	3. Day Two

Rodney awoke to the sound of rain on the window panes, the smell of bacon, and the faintest suggestion of daylight on his eyelids. He stretched his legs and rolled over to put his arms around –

"Ow!"

He opened his eyes to discover he was now on the floor of an unfamiliar room, duvet wrapped around his legs, and a fresh carpet burn on his elbow. His impact with the floor seemed to have rattled the boards, because the tacky figurines on the mantelpiece wobbled alarmingly. He cringed, but nothing fell.

Very slowly, fighting their way through the fog of sleep, memories of yesterday trickled back to him. He stared at the sofa on which he had spent the night, and the faint worry caused by a lack of Carson turned into something very alien to Rodney. He had never experienced such an aching need for someone else before. Even in Atlantis, with Carson working and Rodney sleeping on his own, he knew where his other half was and when he was coming back. Here, in this strange little house, in this strange little country, he was thoroughly lost, nothing was familiar, and he felt utterly alone.

At once he realised two things; firstly, he wanted to go home. Not to Canada, but to Atlantis, where he could think of the city as his, and he was in control – where even the military and Dr Weir looked to him for all the answers, and he supplied them with the confidence and aplomb of a man who knows what is going on. More importantly, it was where he fitted, where he belonged.

The second realisation was that he never, ever, wanted to be separated from Carson like that again. And that realisation made him whimper and clutch at his sheets. He was Dr McKay, forever isolated because lesser mortals simply couldn't follow the workings of his mind. He had never needed a single other person in his life. Friends were one thing, but this nagging dread when he didn't know when he would see Carson again… that was new and terrifying. And he didn't know whether he liked it or not.

He knew he liked bacon, though. And that smell was starting to get to him. He grabbed yesterday's clothes off the chair he had dumped them on, dressed quickly, and stumbled into the kitchen.

"There you are, dear," said Mrs Beckett, putting a huge plate on the table and patting the chair for Rodney to sit.

"Oh. Thanks. Good timing."

"Of course." She patted him on the shoulder, then ambled off into the hall.

Bacon and eggs and tomatoes and beans filled the plate from edge to edge, more food than he had seen in a year fuelled mostly by military rations. Carson's cousin Sandra was sitting opposite him. She gave him a thumbs-up.

"Sleep well?"

"No," he said, stuffing a forkful into his mouth. For some reason that made her grin.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

Rodney knew how to play this game. He kept quiet and watched her giggle into her cornflakes. He expected her to take a while to crack and tell him what she was laughing at, but she gave up almost at once.

"The last person Carson brought home was this girl from work, and she had a massive go at aunty Kate. You know, 'cos of the sofa thing."

"You mean that wasn't just me?"

"God no. She's a bit funny with Carson's girlfriends. And _really_ funny with his boyfriends. She must think alright of you, 'cos you got breakfast. Or maybe she just thinks you look emaciated."

"Thanks. So why-"

The back door opened and Carson came in. Rodney quickly swallowed the question and replaced it was a more urgent one.

"Where have you been? I thought you were asleep."

"Nope, been up for hours." Carson sat himself down and helped himself to a bit of Rodney's bacon. "Took James to the farm at the crack of dawn."

"Farm?"

"Aye. You could come and see it later."

"I'll pass."

Carson nodded. "Can't see you mucking in, feeding the sheep." He chewed on some of Rodney's toast. "Me neither. There're reasons why I left."

"Like, for example, the weather," suggested Sandra, rolling her eyes at the outside world and the pouring rain. "Looks like you boys won't be doing any sight-seeing."

"There are sights?" said Rodney.

Carson ran a hand through his damp hair. "Actually I've got rather a lot to do, so I'm off out again. I just need my bag."

Rodney raised an eyebrow. "Your Voodoo bag? Why?" He leapt to his feet and followed Carson through to the hall. "I'm coming too, by the way."

"I had patients here, years ago. I need to check up on them. And you can come if you promise to behave."

"What am I, a child? A puppy? Going to leave me in the car with the window open a crack?"

In fact, as they trudged down a winding lane, mud slick beneath their feet, Rodney began to wish they had a car for Carson to confine him to. But apparently Carson preferred to go round the village on foot, whatever the weather. Born and raised in the city, Rodney considered this the height of unnecessary discomfort. Water was trickling down the back of his neck, and no rearrangement of collar or scarf could prevent it. His shoes had no grip, and he was forced to catch hold of fences and walls to prevent a disastrous fall into the mud.

Carson didn't seem to notice that they had been catapulted from the safe, dry, well-ventilated security of Atlantis, into the lesser known mud-valleys of hell, where it was always freezing cold, and you could drown if you looked up. In fact, Carson seemed rather cheerful.

"The old place hasn't changed," he remarked.

"Since the eighteenth century," added Rodney.

"Aye, close enough, actually. Plumbing's a bit better, mind."

Rodney shook his head. "You know, I could almost imagine we've stepped through the 'gate onto a frequently Wraith-culled world that hasn't pulled itself out of the last dark age yet." He stepped aside as a flash sports car whipped past, splashing up mud in its wake. "I said _almost_," he emphasised, as Carson grinned and wiped mud splatters from his face.

Carson headed left at a crossroads, and soon they were coming up to a badly-kept house with a rusty car in the drive.

"Who lives here?"

"An old patient. Mrs McLeod. A strong old girl, terrible arthritis. She breeds dogs. I used to help her keep her hands supple enough to keep working."

Rodney followed up the gravel drive. "You take me to all the best places."

"You'll like her. She's a great old girl."

The door was answered by a man younger than either Rodney or Carson. He had a cheerful expression, and a stethoscope round his neck. Carson introduced them, and the young doctor smiled.

"Mrs McLeod talked about you a lot. I'm Dr Grahame. Come in."

"_Talked_?" said Carson. "Past tense?"

"Well she isn't so chatty any more, I'm afraid. She'll be glad to see you, though."

Rodney wrinkled his nose as they followed into the house. The air was heavy with the smell of wet dog, and within moments the origin of the smell was pressing its nose against his hand.

"Get off," he growled, snatching his hand away from the elderly, rheumy animal.

"It's just a wee dog," said Carson.

"Can't stand dogs. Get it off me."

Carson shook his head and walked through to the main room. Rodney had been expecting a frail old lady lost beneath a pile of old blankets, and he was oddly relieved to see the patient wasn't frail at all. She was stout, and looked strong, but it was also evident that she was bored and weary. Sitting up in an old armchair, her feet on a stool, she was staring thorough a leather-bound book as though it wasn't there. When Carson greeted her, she suddenly illuminated, as if someone had pressed her 'on' switch.

"Doctor Beckett! I didn't think I'd see your face again. Your mam said you'd gone off with the army."

The old woman rose from her chair, and Carson went to embrace her. But the smile dropped from his face when Dr Grahame bustled past him and led Mrs McLeod back to her chair.

"Now, now. You know you shouldn't exert yourself."

Carson scowled, but sat down. Rodney got the impression he was going to ignore Grahame as far as possible, and Mrs McLeod didn't seem too amused either.

"Make us a pot of tea, boy, would you?"

Carson set off with a thousand questions about the old woman's health, and Rodney tried to find something to occupy himself. He wondered what their audience would think if he wandered over and sat on Carson's lap, then decided he wouldn't be able to restrain himself after a night confined to the couch. His mind began to wander off on its own at the thought of what he would do when he finally got Carson alone, but he was interrupted by a sinister damp sensation in the region of his left knee.

The elderly dog was back. Rodney shifted his knee away; the dog moved, and put its head in his lap again.

"…And I've still got old Spot there," said Mrs McLeod, nodding towards Rodney. "He seems to like your friend, Carson."

Rodney gave them a pleading look. Carson barely looked at him. There was a deeply troubled expression on the doctor's face.

"But it's no good, listen-"

"Who's having sugar?"

Carson's head snapped round, and he glared at Dr Grahame, who looked utterly ridiculous holding a tray with a pot sporting a pink tea-cosy.

"What do you think you're doing, lad? Have you any idea how to do your job at all?"

"I'm… sorry?"

"Mrs McLeod has arthritis, boy! She's not a cripple, and she isn't frail, but according to her, you've confined her to the house and told her to take excessive precautions. She should be working, keeping her joins supple, not wasting away in a chair!"

The young doctor looked stunned, which was exactly how Rodney felt.

"I've prescribed medications to-"

"Medications my arse!" Carson was shouting now, something Rodney had rarely seen, if ever. "The best course of treatment is regular exercise, and as normal a lifestyle as possible. Not molly-coddling!"

Mrs McLeod put a steadying hand on Carson's arm. "I'm fine, Carson," she said. "Really. Dr Grahame is taking good care of me." She gave him a reassuring smile, but there was a hint of regret in it. "Now off you go, boy. You have better things to do with your time than waste it in idle chat with an old lady."

Carson left the house in a temper so foul Rodney was almost afraid to go after him. It was still pouring outside, dark clouds massed overhead with no sign of letting up. Carson stomped through the rivulets and the mud in the direction of the village square.

"You took that a bit personally," said Rodney.

"Too right I did. I failed that poor woman."

"You're not the one who… did whatever it is that wasn't supposed to be done."

"No, I'm just the selfish bastard who went off and left her in the clutches of an incompetent." He stopped and turned to face Rodney. "I was making a difference in her life. She could have had many more active years if she'd stuck to my advice, but now her condition has worsened and she'll never be as fit as she was before. That fool of a boy has sentenced her to a life of confinement."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Carson, it's not your fault."

"Like you would ever understand! Your work changes the world. Mine… I can help people. Individual people. I should never have turned away from that. Going into research… That was the most selfish thing I've ever done."

Rodney rolled his eyes and resigned him self to following behind once more. He wanted to remind Carson of all the lives he had saved on Atlantis, of all the work he had done on the ATA gene and on Wraith physiology, but he knew right now Carson wouldn't listen to reason. He was angry with the only person he ever got truly angry with – himself.

He caught up with Carson on the grass at the centre of the village square, and tugged at his shoulder, spinning him round.

"Rodney, I don't want to talk about-"

Rodney kissed him, one hand on the back of Carson's neck, the other fisting the front of his shirt. He was vaguely aware there were people around, people staring at them, people making judgements. What the hell did he care? People would judge him whatever he did. He might as well do as he pleased.

Carson was very still for a moment, then kissed him back. His hands found Rodney's hips and pulled him close, wrapping those strong arms that Rodney loved so much around his body.

And still it rained. Rodney screwed his eyes shut against the drips coursing down his face, and he could feel the dampness seeping through their clothes, soaking both their bodies. He broke the kiss and took a cautious lungful of air, a little afraid he might drown.

"Thank you," said Carson, refusing to relinquish his grip.

"Yeah, well. I'm not good with words of support, but if you ever want a deep and meaningful make-out session, I'm your man."

Carson smirked. "Aye, you are. And I'm sorry. It's just… Twenty-twenty hindsight, you know?"

"Yeah, well, we all have that." Rodney looked around the village, at the old man with a dog, watching them like they might start breaking down society any moment, at the stone-walled houses and the cobbled square. "So," he said, "I thought you were going to show me the sights?"


End file.
